The Eid Outsider

On the morning of Eid, Laila goes to a new mosque for the first time. But somehow she has the feeling that she doesn’t fit in.

Each Ramadan closes its chapter with a morning Eid prayer. This year, I found myself on the steps of a mosque I had never been to before. Spotting a trio of women, I gratefully trailed after them.

Tucked around the corner of the mosque was the entrance, where you are greeted by an alcove that housed all kinds of shoes. To avoid shoe hunting later, I placed my sneakers into a plastic bag and continued my journey up the stairs. Furry brown carpets lined each step, paired with peeling turquoise handrails. Sloping shoulders cloaked in shades of brown and grey swayed in front of me with each step up, like gentle waves modestly swelling at sea.

At the top, I faced a fully packed hall. Rows and rows of women kneeled while aptly listening to the imam over the speakers. Thankfully, the queue continued their progression deeper to the back of the hall, so I carefully tiptoed over ankles and bags to follow. There, I found two hallways in front of me, each one lined with women resting on knees tucked tightly under them, watching each passerby with a silent, lingering curiosity that coated me with the uneasy sensation of being examined.

Another full hall emerged, but with a corridor to its side leading to more rooms. It was as if each step I took unfolded another layer of complex origami. With its patchwork rows of prayer mats in a mish mash of different colours, the mosque seemed sentient and was actively improvising each room to fit every single guest.

Finally, I managed to secure a spot. After settling in, I had idle time to observe the women filing in. That’s when I fully noticed the demographic of the room. Everyone present was either a mother, or a child under 13 of one of those mothers. They were dressed in neutral tones with the occasional sparkling bead on their abayas. They also spoke in excited tones of Arabic.

Yet there I was. Sat in all my single undergraduate glory, dressed in trousers and a faux leather discount-rack Zara jacket with orange sushi themed biking socks, and not a single word of Arabic on my tongue. The cherry on top? I was taller than everyone in the room, making me literally stick out. Like a sore thumb.

At this realisation, the loneliness that had been simmering in me surged up and tugged at the tendon connecting my lungs. It was as if all these women and their gaggle of children rested at the bottom of a lake and I could only watch them through an unpierceable film of oil. Everything in me screamed ‘outsider!’

How is it possible that I ached for the sense of belonging I felt in my university’s lecture hall while in the presence of fellow Muslim women of colour? As the prayer call resounded, I stood and fell in step into a collective uniformity with the other women. And though we said the same prayers and did the same steps, the guilt of being the other lingered on.